


Turning Point

by ceterisparibus



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Good Parent Gil Arroyo, Good Parent Jessica Whitly, Hurt/Comfort, Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm was in the FBI, Martial Arts, Murder, OR IS IT, Prison, Self-Defense, Spoilers, Whump, prison fight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceterisparibus/pseuds/ceterisparibus
Summary: Malcolm is ambushed in prison. He survives, but at what cost?(For Jameena’s prompt of prisoners finding out Malcolm was with the FBI and NYPD, with the additional prompt of Malcolm killing someone to protect himself and panicking over whether he is just like his father.)
Comments: 89
Kudos: 129





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts).



> The pov from this first chapter is from a random inmate who hijacked my story. We'll get Malcolm's pov in the next chapters!

There he is. The new kid. Brought in for murder, locked up even though he hasn’t been convicted or even pled guilty yet. But that’s just how it works: you do a crime serious enough, you get thrown in prison even if no one knows for sure that you’re guilty.

This kid? One look at his face, and I know he didn’t do it. I almost feel bad for him. Kid’s freaked, and not in the I-just-threw-my-life-away-by-stabbing-the-wrong-person kinda way. Nope, he’s got that the-whole-world-unanimously-turned-against-me-and-nothing-is-safe-anymore look.

And he might be right about it. Word has it, the kid’s own team was the one that cuffed him. _Team_ , yeah—because the kid’s with the NYPD. Not that he’s got a badge, but he’s a consultant. Specifically, a profiler. And before that, he was FBI. He’s the reason why a handful of the worst killers are in here now. So, obviously, those killers can’t wait to take their shot at him. But the rest of us aren’t too happy with him either. No one wants to share rec time with a serial killer and, thanks to this kid, all of us in Unit 5 keep getting new convicts in, each with five or six counts of first-degree murder. Give or take.

Unit 5’s for the worst offenders. None of us are ever getting outta here.

Kid’s in Unit 1. Obviously. Doesn’t belong even there. He’s not like us.

I can’t help keeping an eye on him. The gangs are spread through all the units, which makes the separation a joke. If someone in Unit 5 wants to get to Unit 1, it’ll happen. And I want to watch. Partly for the entertainment, partly to try to make sure the kid doesn’t actually die. Wouldn’t feel right, ya know?

Not that I’d throw myself in front of a shank for him or anything. But if I can flag down some guards without anyone realizing it was me who broke up the party, I’ll do it.

Right now, I’m filing down the hall to lunch with my unit, and we go past the rec center where Unit 1’s got about an hour of free time. I see the kid in the corner, head down, his floppy hair covering his face. Jumpsuit looks too big for him. And it’s funny: Unit 1 doesn’t have murderers, but there’s a weird energy there all the same. Tension. Everyone else is keeping their distance from the kid, but they’re watching him. They’re definitely watching him.

If the kid’s as good at his profiling as everyone says, he must know how much trouble he’s in.

~

Two days later, and the kid’s still here. Means he either pled guilty or was denied bail. Means there’s no telling how long he’ll be stuck in here. I’m no profiler, but I can read the slump to his shoulders and the way he flinches whenever anyone gets too close just fine. Kid knows he’s done for. I wonder why he hasn’t tried to check himself into the hole, get himself some extra security. Maybe he sees no point in delaying the inevitable?

I wonder if his old teammates realize they gave him a death sentence when they cuffed him.

~

After a week, my cellie shakes me away with a finger over his lips and a wicked glint in his eye, and I realize it’s happening. I get up and find our door unlocked. I’m impressed. Figured whenever they struck, it’d be when we’re all moving to the dining hall or the yard or something. Hits are pretty easy then, if you know what you’re doing. But at night? This has taken planning. Investment. Whatever guards they’re bribing or threatening won’t be able to pull anything like this off again any time soon. So we’ve gotta make it count.

I creep into the hall and find six others waiting. Overkill, right? Maybe literally. I fall in at the back, as far as I can get from Lazarus. That’s the name Paul Lazar, the Junkyard Killer, wanted to go by in here. Lazarus hasn’t taken anyone out in prison yet, but we all know it’s just a matter of time. He’s just wary of ending up in solitary, is all, but if you ask him about his mission, he’ll go on for hours about how he was put in here for a divine purpose. Eventually he’ll start taking out anyone he thinks is…unclean, or something, I don’t really know.

I don’t think he’s got a problem with my particular sins (just too many assaults where people somehow ended up dead), but I’m not about to risk it.

We move fast. Don’t see any guards— _lots_ of investment, I guess—but it won't be long before someone catches us on the cameras. With this much planning, I realize I won’t be able to nab a guard before it’s too late. The kid’s as good as dead. Now I really wish they’d just left me to sleep. Not like adding years to my sentence will make a difference, but I’m not looking forward to losing all my privileges when we get caught. Then again, maybe I can contest the charges, get a fieldtrip downtown to see the judge for the hearing. That’s always fun.

We slow down instinctively to sneak past the Cone, the guard’s outpost in this sector of the jail, even though the guard in there pointedly looks the other way. He’s safe, anyway. The whole Cone is armored. We can’t get in there.

We pass two more Cones without any trouble, and take a shortcut past the rec room to get to Unit 1. I’m not sure how we’re gonna find the Kid, but apparently Lazarus knows just where to go.

We stop at the cell and Lazarus gets the door open no problem. Kid’s asleep inside, and it’s unnerving just to watch. He’s thrashing around and it sounds like he’d be yelling if his teeth weren’t clamped over a mouth guard. I crane my neck and see cords keeping his arms at his sides. I want to look away. Kid’s small, but he’s FBI-trained. I figured there’d be a bit of a fight. But no. This’ll be an execution.

Kid’s cellie is definitely awake, but he’s curled up on his bed with his pillow over his head. He knows what’s coming and he knows we’ll leave him alone if he just stays out of it. I hang back and hold the door open. Easier to keep my hands clean this way.

Lazarus goes to stand right over the kid’s bed, holding a shank loosely in his hand. Kid’s still thrashing like a shark on a beach. I catch myself wondering what he’s dreaming about.

Then, without warning, Lazarus slashes through the cords holding the kid’s nearest arm, and the arm flies free. Almost hits Lazarus in the face, but he leans back outta the way before going for the other arm. The second the cord’s cut, the kid launches himself from the bed, gagging on the mouthguard, and slams straight into Lazarus, who grabs him tight. Kid’s shaking, flailing, and I hope Lazarus’ll make this quick.

Instead, Lazarus yells at the rest of us to get outta the way, and everyone scrambles to either side of the tiny room. Not me, though. I’m still holding the door, hoping the kid might wake up and make a break for it. I’ll pay for this insurrection later.

Lazarus bundles the kid practically in his arms, and smiles, and throws the kid bodily out of the cell. I have to duck to not get clocked by his shoulder. The kid smashes against the front of the cell across the hall and crumples to the floor. There’s a smear of blood left behind on the white door, dark in the low light.

The kid lifts his head groggily. Spits out the mouth guard. Forces his eyes open, and I get a chill at what I see there. The panic from his nightmare is fading fast, and now he just looks like this is what he’s been waiting for all along.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, your comments on the first chapter absolutely made my week! Thank you so much! <3

Malcolm’s eyes won’t focus on the hallway warping and spinning around him, but his body’s shot through with fight-or-flight adrenaline. It’s a dangerous combination. The back of his head throbs, and it just gets worse when he shoves himself to his feet, gasping for breath.

He _has_ to get to his feet. If they catch him on the ground, he’s dead.

(He’s dead anyway.)

That’s John Watkins grinning at him from the doorway, keeping the other inmates behind him. He’s spinning a shank in his hand, jagged metal, and watching, watching.

Malcolm sways against the cell door. He reaches to balance himself, and his hand swipes over wet blood, still warm.

Watkins takes a lazy step forward. “Calm down, Malcolm. I know you think you’re clever, think you can get outta anything, but this…” He shakes his head. “This isn’t something you can escape.”

Malcolm swallows, glancing up and down the hallway. He’s not sure he can disagree. His only hope is that Watkins’ goal is still to put him through some kind of trial. Death isn’t a trial, right?

Or is it?

And even if Watkins wants to keep him alive, Malcolm can’t say the same about the criminals crowding up behind him. Two of them have their own shanks.

“It’s your destiny, kid.” Watkins takes another step. One of the other inmates slips out from behind him, leaning forward on the balls of his feet. Malcolm doesn’t recognize him, can’t figure out if this other guy’s fixation is personal or the result of standard psychopathic tendencies. (Does it matter?)

Malcolm takes a deep, steadying breath. “What do you want me to do? There’s something, right? You want…you want me to do something. Otherwise you would’ve stabbed me on my bed.”

“Oh, Malcolm. I already told you want I want.”

He’s close now, close enough that Malcolm’s amygdala screams at him to run. But he fights against the impulse. Watkins wants him alive. Watkins wants him alive.

“I mean…” For an instant, Watkins’ smile falters. His lip curls. “You _did_ attack me with that crowbar and lock me in a box. In a _box_. So anyone would say I have every right to…” But he takes a deep breath, rubs restlessly at his beard. “It’s all right. I’m not the one who’ll punish you for that.” The smile slides back into place. “I want you to work with me. Remember?”

Malcolm tries to focus through the way his head keeps spinning. Seven men. He can’t take seven men head-on. He clears his throat. “But you haven’t been killing people in prison.”

Watkins stares at him, then laughs. “You thought I lost my calling in here? Oh, no. I just gained…” He spins the shank. “Clearer focus. Besides…” Now his voice lowers. “I was waiting for you.”

A chill raced up Malcolm’s spine. “What, you…you knew I’d end up here?”

“You said you weren’t a killer,” Watkins murmurs. “Me and your dad, though, we always knew better. You’re just like us. And now you finally proved it.”

Malcolm didn’t kill Eddie. He was framed, probably by Endicott. But he forces himself to nod encouragingly, even as his stomach twists itself into knots. “Yeah. I…I did it, you’re right. I killed Eddie. So we can…we can work together. You don’t need…” He gestures at the men crowded in the doorway.

But Watkins just keeps spinning the knife while his eyes search Malcolm’s face. He wants to believe Malcolm, it’s obvious. But he can’t afford to be wrong about this. Suspicion lingers in the creases of his forehead. He breaths heavily through his nose. “Why’d you do it, Malcolm? After insisting you never would?”

Five minutes ago, Malcolm was locked in a nightmare about Eve. Her face, her voice, the touch of her hand. The last thing he wants to do is talk about her. But this needs to be convincing. This needs to be _raw_.

Malcolm dredges up the words. “There was a woman. I loved her. She was the…she was the first person who even tried to see me as…” As a person. As more than the sum of his trauma. He doesn’t want to say any of this out loud, not ever, and definitely not to John Watkins. But he has no choice. His voice shakes with emotion that’s too real. “I let her see the real me. Over and over again. And she tried _so hard_ to make it work. She would’ve…” He hates this. “She would’ve given up the hunt for her sister, just to keep me. She thought I was _worth_ that.”

She’d seen the worst of him. She’d seen the worst of _the Surgeon_. And she’d still thought he was worth it. If he hadn’t forced them to confront the truth, to look at that picture, maybe…maybe…he’d told her the ghosts of their pasts would haunt them anyway, but maybe he’d been wrong.

Watkins’s brow furrows. “What’s that got to do with Eddie?”

Malcolm clenches his jaw. He’d hoped Watkins would’ve heard enough to make that connection on his own. Instead, Malcolm feels the tears stinging the back of his eyes and he curls his trembling hand into a fist, digging his nails into his palms. “He, uh…he killed her.”

Watkins looks taken aback for a second. But then he’s lowering the shank and nodding. “So you killed him.”

Malcolm takes a risk and raises his eyes to the ceiling. He has to, or else the tears will spill over. He nods once.

“I get it,” Watkins says softly. Sympathetically. “I get it. That’s hard, kid.” He’s even closer now, but the shank’s still lowered, and there’s no hunger in his eyes. Malcolm stiffens but does not flinch when Watkins drops a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

Malcolm blinks hard and meets Watkin’s gaze. “So what do you want with me?”

“ _Well_.” Watkins leans back, pursing his lips, and glances over his shoulder, then back at Malcolm. “Well, I’ve gotta say, it looks like you passed part of your trials. But not all of ’em, not yet.”

At that, Malcolm’s traitorous hand starts to tremble.

“See, everything that happened with…” He flaps his hand distractedly, “that girl, it’s all too close to your weakness. Same as your father’s, same as your father’s.”

Malcolm holds perfectly still.

“You loved her, right? You loved her. And you love your family. And you’ll do anything for them. You almost killed _me_ just for threatening your mom and sis a bit.” He steps in close enough that his breath blows in Malcolm’s face. “If I’d’a killed them, you would’ve killed me, wouldn’t you?” His hand catches Malcolm’s chin. “Wouldn’t you?”

Yes. Probably, yes. Yes.

“So.” Watkins drops Malcolm’s chin. “I’m sorry, Malcolm, but killing for revenge isn’t our purpose. You’ve taken a good first step, I’ll give you that, but…” He steps back. “Your trials aren’t done.”

Malcolm sees it, the pinch to his lips and the coldness in his eyes, and Malcolm throws himself to the left just as Watkins stabs with the shank. The blade swipes through air and Malcolm shoulder roles away, then bounces to his feet. He’s got distance now, and he’s bought himself enough time to take in the other criminals who’re spreading out like wolves.

He takes his eyes off Watkins just for a second, just to memorize which of the others have weapons and which have bruised knuckles saying they’ve thought before, and then Malcolm sucks in a breath as something sharp drives into him. He hunches over, gasping, and clutches at the shank now protruding from the leg of his jumpsuit, high on his right thigh.

Watkins straightens up from the throw, shaking out his hand. “Good luck with the next trial, Malcolm. I can’t wait to work with you. I mean, if you survive.”

Then he turns towards the other killers and simply says, “Go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realize there are some pretty mixed opinions about Eve, but I'm trying to reflect Malcolm's feelings as brilliantly portrayed by Tom, so...I hope that worked, haha.


	3. Chapter 3

Malcolm spins and tries to sprint up the hall, but he stumbles at the first step as muscles contract around the shank’s serrated edge. His enemies are bearing down fast; they’ll kill him before he manages to bleed out if he can’t fend them off, slow them down.

So he set his teeth and rips out the shank and _screams_.

Blood soaks his jumpsuit. He’s not thinking about it.

He slides his right leg back as he drops into a fighting stance. The leg’s not stable, but at least it’s not an easy target. The criminal in the lead has his own shank, which he spins until the blade points down. He raises his arm, like the weapon’s a stake he’ll drive through Malcolm’s skull. Malcolm ducks _forward_ , closer, in under the arm, and slashes upwards before his enemy can figure out what he’s doing. Malcolm’s blade snags on cotton and polyester and skin, and the inmate’s weapon clatters to the ground as he jerks away.

Malcolm tips forward, blood rushing in his ears, to snatch the dropped shank from the ground. Then he stumbles backwards, getting distance again, familiarizing himself with the weight of a weapon in each hand. The other criminals have paused. Maybe considering the pain of getting stabbed, maybe just worried that a stab wound will mean interviews and incident reports and revocation of privileges.

Malcolm darts a glance at Watkins, who’s watching with a small smile. If he gets involved, it won’t be for a while. Not until he’s had time to evaluate Malcolm’s performance. And then there’s one more of the gang holding back, hovering by the door to Malcolm’s cell. He looks like he doesn’t want to be there at all.

Which means Malcolm only has to immediately worry about five men.

 _Only five_. A hysterical laugh bubbles up in his chest before he swallows it down.

The FBI didn’t exactly prepare him for this.

One of the other criminals takes a breath—he’s about to strike. So Malcolm breaks one of the cardinal rules of hand-to-hand combat and throws the second shank. Throwing a weapon means risking losing it, letting the other guy get it, but Malcolm’s aim is true even though a shank is not an axe. The blade flips end-over-end and lodges in the man’s gut. It’ll be unbearably painful—that guy’s screaming, definitely out of commission—but he _probably_ won’t die.

Later, Malcolm might have time to be concerned by how little he cares about that.

Right now, the only thing he cares about is how much time he bought himself. He’s hobbling down the hallway as fast as he can, getting dizzy from swiveling his head back and forth to make sure he’s not running into another ambush while also tracking his enemies’ progress behind, where everyone’s newly hesitant. They have him outnumbered, but Malcolm’s got one shank left, and they know the next one to make a move is asking for a knife to the gut.

And Watkins? Watkins is laughing. His laughter echoes off the walls, chasing Malcolm down as sure as the smell of blood and his victim’s echoing screams.

Malcolm is lurching past the rec room when the men still standing finally start catching up. Four of them, with Watkins trailing behind. Malcolm grits his teeth and pushes himself even faster, but he’s even dizzier now, blood loss and a concussion working together to make his ears ring and his legs feel hollow. He slips over blood, _his_ blood, smeared all over his right shoe.

But now he can see the nearest Cone up ahead, and there’ll be _help_ there, if he can just—

Someone grabs him from behind, two giant hands fisted in the back of his jumpsuit, and lifts Malcolm off his feet. Malcolm kicks out blindly, catches someone in the chest, but it’s not hard enough to do any real damage and the next thing he knows, he’s thrown to the ground.

Something in his left arm _cracks._ Malcolm sees stars.

He huddles there on the slick floor, breathing in the heavy copper tang of his own blood. He needs to get up. Needs to move. He’s dropped his shank, it’s under him, he needs to grab it. Instead, it’s all he can do to swallow back bile and gulp for breath.

Hands again, flipping him over. Malcolm snags the shank on the way and stabs up. He’s aiming for the eye; he catches the guy on the side of his face, ripping through his cheek. Hot blood splatters and the guy rears back with a barrage of curses, pressing his hands to the tear in his skin.

Malcolm barely registers it, any of it. He gets his shoulder braced against the wall and pushes, manages to find his way to his feet. The hallway tilts around him. Everything’s warped, distended. He breathes through his mouth. Tightens his grip on the shank.

If Watkins is still laughing, Malcolm can’t hear it past the thundering of his own pulse.

He stumbles backwards, still facing his enemies, too scared to turn around now. If he turns around, he’s dead. He’s dead anyway. Maybe he should stop dragging this out. Prolonging it just _hurts_. But he’s Malcolm Bright, he’s Jessica Whitly’s son. He’s not going down easy.

So he keeps edging backwards, leaning heavily against the wall to stay upright and also to make sure he doesn’t crash into something. Just follow the wall. Keep his eyes on his enemies and follow the wall.

Only three of them left now, and they’ve lost all their cockiness. But one of them…one of them’s got the bloody shank Malcolm threw at their companion. He must’ve yanked it straight from his gut. That knife was probably the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.

It’s stupid, a waste of emotion and adrenaline, but Malcolm feels a stab of panicked horror at the realization that his victim is certainly dead.

Suddenly, the wall gives way beside him and Malcolm lists sharply to the right. He almost goes down, but he catches his balance again. Those years of ballet training, maybe. The thought comes out of nowhere and it’s annoyingly distracting when he needs to concentrate on not dying.

He’s in the rotunda now, and there’s the Cone just a few feet away. But something’s wrong. Malcolm is a prisoner escaped from his cell and obviously hurt—where’s the guard? Where’s _help?_

And then the three criminals emerge from the hallway, snarling because Malcolm’s been so hard to catch, and there’s Watkins strolling behind them having the time of his life, and still nothing changes in the Cone.

And that’s when Malcolm realizes, with sickening clarity, that he truly is alone.

His fingers tighten around the rough handle of the shank. He edges backwards, following the wall’s curve until he’s got it at his back. He breathes in slowly through his mouth, then out. His feet shift once again into a stronger stance.

And he picks his target. The one with the other shank: that man needs to go down first. And it needs to be gory and awful, enough to make the other two hesitate. Just a second of hesitation, that’s all Malcolm needs. But he’ll have to earn it.

(Gil knew it would be dangerous in here; Gil told him to stay alive. Malcolm has to do this for Gil. He’s not sure why he’s telling himself all of this _now_ , but he can’t get it out of his head: _Gil told me to. This is for Gil._ )

The man with the shank is ten feet away. Nine. Eight. Seven.

Six.

Malcolm lunges, swinging wildly with the knife while his hand shoots out to control the other weapon. It’s a nice bit of distraction and it _works_ ; the other guy’s too focused on not getting stabbed. Malcolm caches his wrist and twists and the other shank lands somewhere on the ground. But then a fist crashes into Malcolm’s head, shaking his whole world. He falls backwards with white flashing in his vision and all three of them are crowding in, and he thinks, somewhere, that he hears the scrape of someone snatching up the shank.

And it’s not that Malcolm wants to kill any of them, he’s not thinking like that, he just knows he needs to _stop them right now_ , and the only tool he has is a single jagged blade.

He stabs, aiming for center mass.

He hits the heart.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is, um...weird and jumpy

The body slumps forward and Malcolm slips on blood when he tries to get away. He ends up pinned by the full weight of the other prisoner, blood still spilling. Malcolm can’t think past the smell of it. The knife’s gone, he dropped it. If the others want to kill him, they can take their shot, there’s nothing he can do, there’s nothing he’d even _try_ to do because this man is dying because Malcolm was merciless.

Why didn’t he stab somewhere _else?_

He doesn’t know where he is, he just keeps replaying it. Should’ve hit somewhere else, _anywhere_ else, why did he do _that_ , why did he _do_ that, _why did he do that._

“Malcolm!” Hands grab his shoulders and pull him upright and out from under his victim. “Hey, hey, _breathe_.”

Malcolm can’t. Can’t, can’t, why can’t he? Everything’s shaking, not just one of his hands but _everything_ , his whole body—trembling. And, oh, his fingers are numb, that’s new. He can’t breathe except in tiny, rapid gasps, and he’s obsessing on that fact now. He’s no stranger to panic attacks, he knows _exactly_ what’s happening, but the sheer irony of the fact that he body is trying to kill him seconds after he finally k—

It’s insane, it’s surreal, it’s almost funny.

Somewhere (close, far, he can’t even tell), a siren starts blaring.

He’s pressed against another body, one that’s still warm and alive, pressed so close that pain screams along the crack in his left arm and he can _feel_ the other man’s pulse jumping. It’s John Watkins, high on adrenaline.

“You did it,” he’s whispering, his beard scratching Malcolm’s ear. “You did it. Your father, he’ll be so proud.”

Malcolm’s stomach twists and clenches. He lurches backwards, gagging, but there’s nothing in him to throw up.

“Calm down, calm down.” Watkins smooths down Malcolm’s jumpsuit, like the blood’s something he can just wipe away. Maybe that’s actually what he thinks. “Actually, no, the more frazzled you are, the better. Don’t tell the guards anything. You can do that, right? Keep your mouth shut?” He claps his hand against Malcolm’s jaw and laughs. “Yeah, we both know you can’t stop talking if you tried. Just remember who’s on your side in this place, all right?” He leans in again. “And pick your words smart.”

The words are meaningless. The world’s fading to something gray behind a film of pinpricks of light. Malcolm tries to sit down, but Watkins won’t let go of him.

He passes out still standing up.

~

He dreams of his father, tucking him into bed when he was young enough that he wasn’t yet scared of himself. He dreams of his father’s his soft smile and his proud voice, the same voice he used when Malcolm correctly listed the bones in a human hand.

 _My boy,_ he says. _You’ll be okay. I promise._

_~_

Malcolm wakes up in the infirmary, a cast on his left arm and his right handcuffed to the bed’s railing. His leg itches from brand new stitching, and there’s a needle in his other arm. Blood transfusion. He assumes. He still feels sleepy, almost dissociative. Floating along on the residual numbness of passing out.

He hears a creak and turns his head to see an officer sitting down in the chair by the bed, hard gray eyes staring at him. “Heard you were waking up.”

And just like that, it all snaps back into his brain. The knife. The blood. The body.

He wants to turn himself inside-out.

The guard shifts in the seat, making the poorly-made chair creak. “I need your statement, Mr. Bright.”

“I killed him,” Malcolm gasps out.

The guard clicks a pen. “What happened?”

What _happened?_ Malcolm just _told_ him. “I k-killed him!” The words come out shocked, like the first confession was a failed practice run.

“I understand that, but I need to know what led up to the homicide. When did you leave your cell?”

Homicide. _Homicide_.

“Mr. Bright.”

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. “I’m sorry,” Malcolm whispers. His throat is tightening, his eyes are stinging. He’s crying, and it’s pointless, crying won’t change anything, but it’s too much, it’s all too much, and he needs this release that he doesn’t deserve.

The guard is unaffected. “Did the other prisoners spring you from your cell?”

Malcolm can’t even use his hands to wipe away his tears. He stares up at the ceiling. The cheap AC sends blasts of cool air that outline the paths his tears are making down his face. Privacy, can’t he just get _one second_ of privacy to deal with the fact that he—

Who is he kidding. There is no _dealing_ with this.

“Mr. Bright.” The officer’s voice sharpens.

Malcolm stares at the ceiling. It’s white. He blinks and sees a splash of blood across its textured surface. Blinks again, and he’s pressed up against the wall, held fast by his victim’s deadweight.

The guard heaves a sigh. Clicking his pen once more, he stands (the chair protests) and leaves without another word.

~

Malcolm doesn’t eat. He’s terrified of sleeping. He counts the bars on the ceiling, counts the checkered tiles on the floor, counts the beeps of his heart monitor. Hours drain away. Maybe days. He doesn’t know.

Nurses come in. So do more officers and one or two lawyers. Malcolm ignores them all. What’s the worst they can do to him? Whatever they come up with, he’s certain he won’t care.

He’s wrong about that.

Because they bring Gil.

Gil’s eyes are dry now, but they’re also red-rimmed. He can’t hide that, even though he’s acting like he’s perfectly fine. He takes a seat in the chair by the bed, just like everyone else. He’s not wearing anything formal, just jeans and a maroon sweater. There are lines etched so deeply in his forehead that Malcolm thinks distantly that they might become permanent.

“Hey, kid,” Gil says.

And Malcolm falls apart.

~

Malcolm’s not sure what happened. Gil says he hyperventilated (again). Malcolm’s stomach clenches. He’s so pathetic. Can’t even face what he did.

How was Martin always able to be so calm about it? So completely unruffled? Was it the number? By the time you got to twenty-three, it stopped getting to you?

Martin was psychopathic. He didn’t feel empathy—or if he did, it was selective. Malcolm knew that. But what Malcolm was feeling wasn’t empathy. It was…he didn’t know what it was.

But Malcolm wasn’t feeling empathy either. He couldn’t be, because Martin was right all along. They were the same.

Gil’s still in the room. Or maybe he left and came back. Malcolm doesn’t know, but he selfishly clings to the idea that Gil’s been sitting there this entire time, that Gil hasn’t left, that Gil can stand to be in the same room with him, that Gil still cares.

“Kid,” Gil says, voice tight.

Malcolm realizes his hand is over Malcolm’s cast. He wishes he could feel the warmth from it.

“You’re okay,” Gil says. “You’re okay.”

That’s not true, that’s _such_ a lie, but at least he isn’t asking what happened.

“You’ve been in here for two and a half days now,” Gil goes on. “The doctors are worried about you. They say you’re not eating.”

The doctors aren’t _worried_. Malcolm’s a prisoner, and now he’s a murderer. They don’t care about him.

“I brought you something.” And Gil pulls a green-wrapped lollipop from his pocket. “Eat this, at least.”

Malcolm’s throat closes up. He _can’t_.

Gil seems to understand. He sets it on the bedside table. “Sunshine is still at your mom’s house,” he reports. “She’s doing well.”

 _Mom._ And that finally gets to him. Malcolm forces the words out: “Does she know?”

The creases in Gil’s forehead manage, impossibly, to deepen. “Yeah, kid. Yeah, she does.”

Malcolm can’t swallow.

Then Gil says: “She wishes she could be here.”

Which… _what?_

_Why?_

If she knows…if she knows….

Gil presses his lips into a thin white line, just for a second. Then he clears his throat. “John Watkins was involved. The guards found him with you. We don’t know exactly what happened yet, but we know this: whatever happened, it was complicated.” The hand on Malcolm’s cast moves up to grip his shoulder. “And I know this wasn’t your fault.”

Malcolm could’ve stabbed _anywhere else_.

“Kid, I’m—” It’s horrifying: Gil’s voice cracks. “I’m so sorry.”

What?

“I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

 _To_ him? Like Malcolm’s the victim?

And oh, it would be _so nice_ to imagine it the way Gil sees it right now. To know that all those times he insisted that he was not his father hadn’t been lies. For just an instant, the awful pressure on his chest lessens.

Then it comes crashing back down, heavier than ever, as Malcolm remembers sagging backwards under the weight of the man he’d killed.

“Malcolm!” Gil read something on his face, he must have, because the next thing Malcolm knows, Gil has his hand around the back of his neck and he’s leaning over, _crowding_ over Malcolm, just so he can press their foreheads together. “Listen to me. You were attacked. You barely survived. This whole thing was orchestrated, and it is _not your fault._ ”

Malcolm closes his eyes. If only he could believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this really gonna be wrapped up in 5 chapters? Probably not, but I can pretend :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This dumb chapter wasn't even in my outline, but, whoops, here it is. (Shoutout to ProcrastinatingSab for tricking me into writing this. She's very tricksy.)

Gil leaves eventually. He has a job; he has to. And Malcolm drifts into something close to sleep. Maybe he actually is asleep; it’s hard to tell. Normally, he can recognize the nightmares, at least sometimes. He’s familiar enough with them, and they stick to certain patterns, and there’s that slight hint of illogic, a ripple in the illusion, that gives him a shred of hope.

But now? Now real life is worse than the nightmares.

So it’s safer to stay on the edge of sleep, in that hazy place where his mind can finally quiet down. That’s where he lingers, mostly successfully, until night falls.

The hospital goes dark, lit only by cold, bluish light.

Everything gets quiet, except for the steady beeping of his heart monitor and the hushed whirring of machinery.

And Malcolm is wide awake.

(Maybe hovering on the edge of sleep during the day hadn’t been such a good idea.)

He can’t stop looking at the door, can’t stop holding his breath so he’ll hear if it creaks. There’s no way Watkins is done with him, and what about all the other prisoners he’s pissed off? How long can it be before someone comes in to finish the job?

He’s sweating and the thin, scratchy sheets are sticking to him, clinging like a second skin. But that’s not the skin he needs to shed. Why is he so scared of a _door_ when the real monster is in him? In the neurons firing in his skull, in the muscle beating behind his ribs?

He’s wide awake and can’t stop _hearing_ it, the small _squish_ as the blade stuck, the small gasp as the man…what, realized this was it? Realized he was about to die? Or was he just gasping because of the pain? Did he even _feel_ the pain yet, or was it just surprise that he’d been beaten?

Malcolm hopes it was just surprise. Not pain, not fear.

Malcolm stares up at the ceiling. He shouldn’t have gone for the heart. He _didn’t have to_ go for the heart.

The tears are welling up and he knows that if he panics, nurses will come in. He has to stay calm. He doesn’t need (want, deserve) meds. Doesn’t want people around, people whose job is to keep him alive even though they know he’s a murderer. They think he’s a murderer twice now, probably, but it doesn’t _matter_ that they’re wrong about the one when they’re _right_ about the other and—

He’s a murderer.

Identity is weird. So many different things can jostle for center stage, all vying to take root in a your core. All fighting to define you. And maybe sometimes you have a choice. You can _let_ something define you, but you can also push back. Push it down. Choose something else to take precedence.

Some things aren’t like that. Some things don’t give you a choice. They thrust down to the deepest part of you and stake a claim and you can’t shake them no matter how hard you try.

Murderer.

Malcolm can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, and the nurses will come in at any moment, and he’s not ready for that, not ready for—

The door opens.

He bolts up in bed—as far as he can get with the restraints still locked tight around his wrists, system flooding with adrenaline, but it’s not fight-or-flight, flight isn’t an option for him and he can’t _fight_ because—because look what happened last time—

“Shh, shh.” Someone’s rushing towards the bed and he picks up on the sound of heels clicking on the floor, which isn’t right, that doesn’t sound like a nurse and he can’t really imagine John Watkins in heels even if it was part of a disguise, so he doesn’t understand.

Then there are hands on his face, soft and delicate and familiar in some primal way that nothing else can really match. It’s Jessica, easing him back onto the pillows and shushing him, forcing a smile even though her eyes are filled with worry.

His muscles finally unclench. There’s no threat here. Not the physical kind, anyway. “Mother,” he breathes.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t see you sooner.” There are tears on her face but she’s still trying to smile. “The paperwork, it’s a nightmare. Gil finally pulled a few strings, I’m not supposed to be here, I don’t have long, but I don’t—I don’t know when I can come back and I had to _see_ you.”

No, nonononono. She can’t be here, holding his face and looking at him like that. It’s more than he can handle. He tries to shake his head.

“Gil told me what happened. I’m so—I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have let you go in here, we should’ve _known_ this would happen, your father, we should’ve known he’d—”

“Dad?” Malcolm’s voice cracks and he hates himself for using that name. “This was…he was behind this?”

She pulls back, blinking. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Forget it, Malcolm. Put him out of your mind.”

“You think he made this happen?” Hope slips into Malcolm’s voice and he doesn’t even know _why_ except that blaming all of this on Martin’s machinations would be…easier…maybe?

Or worse, so much worse, because it means Martin _knew_ Malcolm would use the knife if he simply set the chessboard _just so_.

“I don’t know,” Jessica says quickly, her voice dropping low like even talking about him will somehow summon him.

“He doesn’t want me hurt,” Malcolm can’t help pointing out.

Jessica’s smile tightens. “Well, that’s what he says, isn’t it?” She never believed Martin about that and Malcolm doesn’t want to argue with her. Wetting her lips, she lowers herself onto the edge of the bed. “But I didn’t come to talk about him. I came to talk about you.”

Which is the last thing Malcolm wants, but he doesn’t know what to do or say to get out of it.

“Malcolm.” Her hand caresses his face again, brushing over cool tearstains. “Are you okay?”

His eyes sting. “I’m _fine_.”

Her forehead creases. “We’ll get you out of here. This hospital is horrible, you need much better care. I’ve been talking with the lawyers, they think they can use what happened to you to get you somewhere better, somewhere safer, at least until they can convince the judge to let you out, that you’re not a threat.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. He _is_ , though. He wasn’t, when Jessica’s army of lawyers were first arguing to get him released on bail. But no matter how intelligently they insisted that he’d been framed for Eddie’s murder, the judge hadn’t believed them.

Jessica said at the time that the judge was bowing to public pressure. Couldn’t have it look like the justice system was going easy on Malcolm just because he worked with the NYPD. And Malcolm had believed her.

Now he can’t help wondering if the judge had _known_ , somehow. Seen something in him.

He is a threat. He has always been a threat.

Jessica trails off into uneasy silence. She knows she’s said too much, said the wrong thing. She’s probably trying to figure out how to apologize.

He notes that she hasn’t said it wasn’t his fault. Because she thinks it’s a given, probably. But a nasty voice in a dark place in his mind, a place that’s growing by the second, says it’s because she can’t bring herself to lie.

She shifts on the bed and takes a breath, about to say something.

“Don’t,” Malcolm says, blinking his eyes open.

“Don’t what?”

“Just…could you…” _Go_ , he wants to say. _Leave me alone. Stop trying to make this better. Stop feeling sorry for me._ But the words are too heavy on his tongue. He can’t say them. Because she’d leave, if she thought that was what he wanted. She’d leave and he’d be all alone with his new reality and he can’t…he can’t stand that.

“I’m right here,” she murmurs, eyes searching his face for any clue of what he’d been trying to say before he gave up.

When he was a kid, she’d look at him like that, sometimes. It began after he started realizing something was wrong with D—with Martin. He knows he changed then. Got quieter. Laughed less. Worried more. And Jessica was many things, but she was not and never had been a bad mother. So of course she’d noticed. And she’d tried to get him to talk. The few times that he managed to say anything, like about the girl in the box, she hadn’t believed him. But dismissing his memories as nightmares didn’t solve the problem, nor did distractions or lectures or counseling or anything else she’d tried.

He tried to think, sometimes what that must’ve been like. To be the mother of a son so broken. To try to _fix_ him only to fail again and again, coming up empty every time. Maybe she’d even been a little relieved, when the truth finally came out? Because now she had a reason for what was wrong with her little boy. Except that everything wrong with Malcolm hadn’t gone away when the Surgeon was arrested.

(He’d thought, though, that things had been getting better. That _he’d_ been getting better. He knew now that all that brokenness had just been hidden. Festering. Waiting for an opportunity. For _permission_.)

Jessica, though. She’s desperate for an answer, for a solution. Desperate once again for him to be fixed. He wishes he could give her that.

He can’t. But he can give her one small way to help.

“Mom,” he whispers. “Can you…”

“Anything,” she says immediately.

A lump rises in his throat. “Can you stay with me?”

She can’t, not for long. She’ll get caught, and that’ll only make things worse.

But she nods, managing a smile for all of two seconds before it breaks. He scoots a little to the side and she pulls her legs onto the bed, tucking up against his side, her head resting on his arm shackled to the railing. She smells like his childhood, like hugs given for scraped knees, like early-morning cuddles watching the news, like _home_.

He doesn’t think he can sleep. Doesn’t even want to try. But he falls back into that dull, in-between place, and it’s…it’s almost not bad.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for very vague references to suicidal ideations.

Malcolm wakes up and Jessica is gone. There’s too-bright sunlight glaring off white walls. This place needs more color. It’s so cold. The nurses don’t mention her when they come, so she must have avoided detection. At least she didn’t get into trouble on his account.

The nurses bring food and make him eat it. He feels sick, but he keeps it down through sheer force of will. The last thing he wants is more drama.

To distract himself from the nausea, he starts thinking. The blissful numbness of shock has worn away, and he’s waking up to the fact that he can’t stay here in this hospital room forever. Life stretches on ahead of him. Endless.

He doesn’t have to take that first step yet, that first step into the life waiting for him. He’s hesitating on the threshold of the new reality waiting for him, squinting at it, trying to make sense of it. Trying to find something familiar there.

He still remembers—vividly—waking up to the reality that his dad was gone. Not just gone, arrested. Not just arrested, arrested for _being a serial killer_. It took about four days for it to actually sink in. Malcolm spent the time in between trying to make Ainsley smile so Mom wouldn’t have to worry.

And then, all of a sudden, it hit him. He didn’t have a Dad anymore. People were calling Dad a monster. _And they were right._

And he’d thought about growing up, going to school, having friends. He’d tried to picture what all of that would look like now. And he couldn’t. He just…couldn’t. Everything had changed too much.

The only thing that was even kind of familiar was when Mom collected him and Ainsley and bundled them all in Malcolm’s room with popcorn and ice cream, wrapped them in blankets and snuggled up with them so they could watch Disney movies. And Malcolm realized that, no matter how much everything else would change, he’d always have Jessica and Ainsley.

That’s still true, he supposes. But in fact, there was one other thing he’d been able to find comfort in back then, something he hadn’t been quite existential enough to realize back when he was a kid: the fact that he, himself, had not changed.

And that is definitely not true anymore.

(Well, unless he believes that he’d always been capable of choosing to stab someone through the heart. But it’s _slightly_ less painful to think that there’d been one time in his life when he’d been innocent.)

So now he has to sit and wrestle with this unknown future looming ahead of him while realizing that not only has everything else changed about his life, but he himself has too. From now on, he’ll look in the mirror and see a killer.

And that isn’t even getting into the fact that he’ll never be able to consult with the NYPD, not when he’s just wrecked his legal case by stabbing someone. Does it even matter if they convict him of the wrong crime? He’s a murderer either way.

The point is…no NYPD. No team. Solving murders by…by anonymous _tips_ , at best.

Malcolm’s stomach twists and, great, the nausea’s back, and this time with a vengeance. Maybe he’s thinking too much. Hard to stop, though. It’s always been hard to stop.

He’s not sure how long he lies there, trying to stop thinking and failing, when the door opens. It’s a nurse, but he barely even registers the medical uniform because Ainsley has already burst out from behind them, a blast of gray suit and cream-colored shirt, charging straight into the room with all the grace and tact of a tornado.

“Malcolm!” She throws her arms around him and suddenly he’s choking on blonde curls. “You’re okay!”

“Not if you keep suffocating me,” he grunts.

She pulls back, laughing but with suspicious moisture in her eyes. “I swear, you got Mom’s dramatic genes.”

Their whole family is nothing but drama, as Gil can attest. The quip rises to his lips, but it’s too…too tangled up with everything else. He swallows hard and instead says nothing.

Her laughter drains away. “No smart comeback?”

He wants to. He wants to be normal, just with her, just for a few minutes. But—he can’t—

“I see how it is,” Ainsely mutters. She sits up, perched on the edge of the bed with her head high and eyes narrowed.

He feels oddly like a mouse, pinned under the gaze of a bird of prey. “…What?” he asks nervously.

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight.” She folds her arms across her chest and actually tosses her head before resuming staring at him. “You got arrested for a crime you didn’t commit because you were framed. Which _everyone who knows you knows_. But Gil can’t just ignore evidence even if he wants to, so—”

“I have to stop you there,” he cuts in, raising a hand. “My team isn’t convinced I was framed.”

“Aren’t they?” she snaps. Then her eyes widen. “…They haven’t told you?”

“Told me what?”

“That they know this wasn’t your fault!”

Malcolm’s stomach flips. A little bit of hope, a little bit of despair. “Gil…Gil said it wasn’t my fault, but he was just talking about the attack at the prison. He said it was an ambush, but—”

“It _was_ an ambush,” Ainsley growls.

Doesn’t change the fact that he knew exactly what he was doing when he stabbed. And doesn’t change the fact that Gil and J.T. and Dani all suspected him of killing the guard in the first place. Malcolm opens his mouth to explain all that, but what’s the point?

What’s the point?

Ainsley takes a deep breath. Like she’s gathering her patience or like she’s gearing up to do a segment in front of a camera. Maybe both? He doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter.

“Listen,” she says, and, yep, that’s her in-front-of-the-camera voice. Clear and clipped and confident; he’d know it anywhere. “Let’s go through the facts, shall we? First, you were framed. We can agree on that, right? _Right?_ ” she adds when he hesitates.

“I didn’t do that murder, but, Ains—”

“ _Don’t_ interrupt,” she says icily, and she sounds so eerily like Jessica that he shuts up. “So you were framed, and Gil had no choice but to arrest you because of the evidence. But Gil _doesn’t_ think you did it. He’s gonna testify for you at the trial, Malcolm!”

Malcolm hesitates. “Still?”

She actually rolls her eyes at him. “Yes, idiot, _still_.”

That…that doesn’t matter, not in the grand scheme of things. But it still helps a tiny bit. “I knew he’d have to testify, but I didn’t think…”

The ice melts a little. “You thought he’d blame you?”

Malcolm shrugs guiltily. “He didn’t say he wouldn’t.”

“He probably thought he shouldn’t have to!”

Malcolm just shrugs again. He kind of feels horrible for doubting Gil and he can’t decide if this new awful feeling is bad because he can’t handle feeling more bad things or good because it tips the scale into _overwhelming_ so that everything just kinda…smears together.

“Malcolm.” Ainsley scoots closer, one knee folded up on the bed so that it jabs into the side of his hip. “Gil doesn’t blame you. Gil’s telling everyone who’ll listen how it wasn’t your fault. And guess what? The rest of the team is right there with him.”

Malcolm isn’t so sure he buys that last part. He still remembers the look in Dani’s eyes when she slid the cuffs over his wrists. (He’ll never forget it.)

“Anyway, that’s Part One of the story.” She says it with complete assurance, already moving on like there are no controversies left to be discussed. “Part Two is you in jail. With…” Her expression tightens. So does her voice. “With John Watkins. I still can’t _believe_ they let him anywhere near you. I’ve already got a story written up, if you want me to—”

“What?” he interrupts, horror jolting through him. “Story about what?”

She pauses. “About…about the corruption and other failings of our prison system.’

No, she means about _him_. “Ains,” he says helplessly.

“What?” she asks innocently.

“Don’t,” he warns. “You stopped being cute playing dumb when you were five.”

“Excuse you, I’m always cute,” she retorts. “So…that’s a no on the story, then?”

He tries to smile. “Have you switched to fiction?”

“Malcolm—”

“Then no.”

“People need to know what—”

“ _Stop_.”

She, miraculously, stops.

Malcolm holds his breath, not trusting the silence to last. He gives her five seconds before she starts going again.

One. Two. Three. Four—

“This isn’t like you,” she says.

He sighs. “Tied down to a hospital bed? It’s not actually unprecedented.”

She ignores that entirely. “You should be angry.”

He—what?

She leans closer, voice dropping to a hiss. “You should be _furious_. They drag you out of your cell, six against one? No guards? Malcolm, that’s—that’s—” Words fail her, apparently. Malcolm can’t remember the last time that happened.

“I know,” he says heavily. “I was there.”

“You should’ve _died_ ,” she bursts out.

“I know.” He wonders if she knows that they mean it two different ways.

From the way her face pales, he suspects that she does. For a long time, she’s still and silent. Her eyes search his. “Do you…do you really think that?”

The denial dies somewhere in his throat.

She bites down on her lip. Tears glisten in her eyes, but her face is hardening, not softening. She reaches for one of his hands and squeezes. Just squeezes.

And he breathes. Just breathes.

She breathes in, slow and shaky, but her voice is surprisingly steady when she says: “It was him or you.”

Doesn’t matter.

“It was him or you,” she repeats, “and you chose you.”

That makes it sound like he chose life. He didn’t. He didn’t choose life for himself, he chose death for someone else. There’s a difference.

She tightens her grip on his hand, nails digging into his skin. “It was him or you, and you chose you. That’s not murder, Malcolm.”

There’s a difference.

“That’s not murder. That’s self-defense. That’s _surviving_.”

There’s a difference?

“If he’d lived, he would’ve killed you. Or one of the others would’ve. Watkins would’ve.”

She believes what she’s saying; he can see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. He knows what it looks like when she’s telling a comforting lie—she does it to Jessica all the time. This isn’t that.

Her other hand comes up and twists in the fabric of the hospital gown over his chest. “Listen to me, Malcolm. _Listen_. You are. Not. Like. Him.”

The Surgeon killed for fun. For the thrill. And he didn’t even see anything wrong with it.

Ainsley says it one more time: “You’re not like him. You believe me?”

He wants to. Oh, he wants to. And…maybe he can. Maybe he will. Eventually. So it’s almost not even a lie when he nods.

But she knows him too well. Neither her grip on his hand nor her grip on the gown loosen at all. “Say it. Out loud.”

His stomach clenches. He’s spent all this time burrowing himself in his new identity; he almost doesn’t want to crawl back out. Especially because he might find himself crawling back in the second she leaves, taking her belief in him with her. Better not to pull free in the first place. “Does it matter?” he tries.

She blinks hard, but a tear escapes anyway, clinging to her lashes before it rolls down her cheek. “ _Please_.”

His little sister in pain. He scrambles to give her comfort. “I’m not like him,” he echoes. Like he’s supposed to. 

There’s no relief in her eyes, just another tear running down her face. “Tell me why.”

“Because…” He swallows. “It was them or me.”

She’s nodding, but she’s not letting go; she’s encouraging him, not letting him be done. “Which means?”

“It wasn’t—” He stops. If he says it out loud, and it turns out not to be true…he doesn’t think he can handle that.

But there she is, staring at him, young and hopeful but looking more scared the more he hesitates.

“It wasn’t murder,” he blurts out.

Her hands relax just the slightest bit, but her eyes don’t leave him. “Are you just saying that, or do you mean it?”

“I—Ains, I—” He closes his eyes; he can’t look at her when he says this. “I aimed for the heart.”

“I know.”

His eyes snap open. “What?”

“It was them or you,” she says simply. Like it doesn’t change anything that he’d aimed to kill.

And…he supposes, logically, that she’s right. But it doesn’t _feel_ right.

“You aimed for the heart because it was him or you,” she says. “That’s not murder. That’s surviving. You chose surviving. And, Malcolm?”

“Yeah?” he whispers.

“I’m really glad you did. So maybe…” She sounds suddenly, strangely tentative. “Maybe you could be glad too?”

Oh. Of course. Because with that question, she is leaving behind logic. Leaving behind the cold, hard facts. Wandering into the murky realm of emotion.

Dangerous territory for the Surgeon’s children.

She does it again, going for his weak spot: “Please.” Voice hushed, brittle, about to break.

If he breaks, she’ll break.

Malcolm drags the words out from somewhere deep inside. “I’ll try.”

It’s not quite what she wants, but it’s the best he’s got. And it’s not a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter count went up again, shhh, I know what I'm doing (kind of)

**Author's Note:**

> Am I writing too many fics at once? Yes.  
> Will I stop any time soon? Probably not.
> 
> Also, shoutout to ProcrastinatingSab for helping me brainstorm and coming up with a title! Have you read her stuff? Go do it asap!


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